Nicotine
by Dr. Vamoosi
Summary: Klavier is just so burnt out these days. He may as well visit the lovely people at the Wright Anything Agency. But Herr Wright is hosting a guest.


He really felt like some sort of burnt-out child actor sometimes. Really, he did.

A year ago today, Klavier was glittering under a sheen of sweat from the overheated stage lights. The crowd was a stretched-tight wave of energy and fighting voices and eyes turned on him. Him, really, alone, which he often used to feel a pang of guilt for but when he was dressed in a tight shimmering shirt and leather pants that left almost nothing to the imagination, it couldn't be avoided. Besides, it was — he glanced at the digital clock resting on his desk — eight at night, and a year ago today at eight at night the spotlights were snapped on him as he serenaded all the 'lovely frauleins' in the audience with the a capella opening of Atroquinine, My Love. The echo of the sudden crescendo passing through the audience rang in his head and he turned his head to share a winning grin with Daryan because even after nearly seven years, the idea that they were_ famous_ and people were dying to see _them_ was still —

his eyes fell on a half-open drawer crowded with crumpled papers. Right.

That was where it had fallen apart, really. Daryan. His throat still swam thick with unsaid words and held-back tears when he remembered the look Daryan had given the last time they'd met eyes, the sharp stare his second guitarist had fixed on him that had burned hard with hate and rage and something almost like hurt. He'd had to keep his easy slouch the whole time, and his fixed smile, and it was hard when Daryan's glare stung like the lash of a whip against his spine. The journalists had eaten it up.

Daryan was the sort of irreplaceable that new parents talked about. Slim fingers that played guitar strings as well as his mind played suspects in cases, a blunt and heavy personality that balanced out Klavier's glimmery showmanship. The only thing he claimed to love more than music was the law, and after that case, it was like tipping everything upside down and watching all the things Klavier thought he'd had organized scatter across the floor. The Gavinners could have gone on without their percussionist, or without their bassist. Not without Daryan.

And then, Kristoph.

There was nothing to be said about what his brother had done. Nothing more to be said than had already been written in the files. They were the only ones he'd kept organized, really. Every time he reread them (and it was so often, like they held him down, the ropes tying a balloon to the ground) there grew a feeling in his chest and in the pit of his stomach that somehow always pulled an image of certain defense attorneys to the front of his mind. 'You aren't changing. You've stopped.' The case had dropped some sort of two-ton weight on the scale that weighed out his law career and the Gavinners, and all too suddenly it was like he'd never wanted to be a rock star. Who would, after seeing the glint in the eyes of Apollo Justice and Phoenix Wright that day?

But now, months later, as Klavier Gavin the prosecutor, he was lazing in his office at too-late at night and pretending that he was back on stage. _Sigh._

It was amazing, really, how quickly the public moved on; he'd expected the fame and the piles of fanmail to die down some, sure, but he felt suddenly stranded by the fanbase that he'd spent years working to please, all because he didn't get sweaty and mess his hair up on stage or sing ambiguously homoerotic lyrics. He spun in his chair. Were Daryan here (a slick cringe of pain travelled down his spine) he would be spitting the word 'diva' at him. He was practically calling _himself_ a diva, but the way he ached for attention and social glory was almost physically painful. One did not get a lot of conversation out of jaded secretaries and pages upon pages of files. He was still Klavier Gavin, for God's sake, he was still dazzlingly handsome and fascinatingly charismatic and he should have people to talk to at every hour of the day!

So, he thought as he pushed himself out of his chair, he would just have to _find _someone to talk to him.

Which was the completely logical and reasonable reason that he was standing outside Herr Wright's office door, knocking in a rhythm and beaming the grin that he should have patented years ago.

From inside the office was a sort of shout with which Klavier was entirely unfamiliar. Usually the only yelling that emanated from the 'agency' was the cringe-worthy sounds of Apollo torturing his voice (really, one of these days Klavier would have to have words with that man), but this was something different: a reckless noise with a tagged on addition of 'dude' smothering Wright's half-hearted protests, followed by heavy steps and the door swinging open.

It was not Apollo. That much was clear.

It was some grinning, lanky guy with a goatee and a safety-orange jacket. Klavier barely got out a 'hallo' before the grin dropped off the guy's face and he slammed the door shut.

Klavier blinked. Through the wood of the door he could hear muffled conversation — 'dude, Nick, I-I think I'm hallucinating' and 'Larry, for God's sake, let the man in.' Klavier blinked again, still stunned by the rush of air that had come with the door. It was not a familiar feeling. It usually only ever came after beaming bright and early into Daryan's hungover face.

The difference between the situations was harsh enough that it didn't bring the usual sick feeling that so often came with remembering Daryan.

The door opened again, Phoenix Wright looking out with long-suffering look. It almost worried Klavier how practiced it seemed, but with what Wright had had to put up with… Klavier only raised an eyebrow.

"He's an idiot," Wright said in apology, stepping away from the door. "Come in."

Klavier allowed himself to be ushered into the agency proper, stepping carefully over the mess that receded only inches every time he came by to visit (Apollo's attempts were always foiled by an excitable Trucy and a mischievous Herr Wright, the latter of whom liked to place his clutter exactly where Apollo had last cleaned). One of the couches was already occupied by the mystery man in orange, whose face had apparently stuck in an expression of concentrated shock. Klavier caught Phoenix's eyes rolling in his peripheral vision as he was pushed into the empty couch.

"Larry, this is Klavier Gavin, Gavin, this is Larry Butz. I'm going to go see if I can coax Apollo away from his work for a couple of seconds for you. Larry —" Phoenix paused there, as if to search for the best way to word what he wanted to say next — "don't hurt yourself, okay?"

Klavier tried momentarily to keep himself from laughing — it was only polite — but when 'Larry' didn't so much as blink, he assumed it was safe to let out a chuckle. Then Larry's gaze slid slow from Wright to Klavier, and Wright had suddenly walked further into the agency, and the tension pulled taut like a rubber band ready to snap.

Time had a funny way of stretching when one least wanted it to. The seconds since Wright had left him alone with his strange and possibly broken friend had mutated into minutes into hours, fiddling with the knees of his jeans (look, just because he was full prosecutor now didn't mean he was dropping his style) and trying to avoid being snared by the awkward stare coming off of this Larry character. Klavier had come to the agency for Apollo's conversation, a simple thing that seemed to only really care about Prosecutor Gavin and finding the truth, but apparently was receiving empty stretches of static air that lined his breath with discomfort. From the noise that had been coming from this guy while Klavier was still outside, this was really the last thing he had expected. He looked up from the tear starting on the knee of his pants and at this Larry guy. He had come here for conversation, and by all the things that made him Klavier Gavin, he would get it.

"Hello," Klavier said.

Turned out, this was a mistake.

Larry appeared to undergo a change akin to his consciousness finally slamming hard back into his body, eyes widening and mouth gaping, sucking in a hard breath before releasing it again in a babbling stream. "Oh my god, holy crap you're Klavier Gavin man I thought I was like seein' things back there and then Nick was all 'Larry don't be stupid' and I was like but Nick, I think Klavier frikkin Gavin was at your door and he was all 'well yeah he comes here all the time' which is crazy, I thought, but here you are, dude, you're so cool holy crap I can't believe I'm in the same room with KLAVIER GAVIN."

Larry had a face like a cartoon character. His features twisted every which way and Klavier had forgotten to listen in order to try and chart his expressions, but from the excited tone and the rapid syllable he figured he understood what was being said. The energy coming off of him felt like memories of sugar-high playdates, teenybopper fans chugging Mountain Dew before a concert. Larry's hands darted in front of him in abstract shapes like words just weren't enough to explain the feelings flitting through his brain. He had leaned so far forward in his seat it was as though he was just hovering over the upholstery.

All in all, it was completely, inexplicably charming, and Klavier could do nothing but laugh. Larry fixed him with this glowing look like a child would give to his hero.

Klavier realized, then. He kind of _was_ this Larry's hero.

Oh.

There was a rush that rose up Klavier's gut and into his chest that had been dormant for months, that felt completely like the sound of applause climbing through his nerves. His grin shifted.

He leaned forward to rest his forearms on his knees, smile a performance for a one-man audience." Herr Butz, what a wonderful change it is to talk to such a genuine fan!"

Larry's mouth suddenly went slack partway through a word. "I-it is? I mean! Acourse it is! Dude, I am such a big fan, seriously."

"Ja, I can tell!" Klavier said, and, God, he wasn't even sure if he was being honest. The words made Larry light up like a Christmas light, though, so he ventured on. "So many of my so-called fans have just forgotten I even exist. It is true fans like you who keep me going, really."

Larry looked as though he may explode. Klavier's grin widened.

There were padded footsteps as Wright came back into the room, muttering under his breath about 'work yourself to death' and 'no wonder you never get laid.' "Sorry, Gavin, but Apollo swears he's up to his neck and work. I think he just doesn't want to change out of his sweatpants." Wright stopped short of the couches, eyes darting between Klavier's sun-bright grin and Larry's eyes wide with hero worship. "Did I miss something?"

"Not at all, Herr Wright," Klavier said, leaning back into the couch. "I was just acquainting myself with your friend. It is only polite, ja?"

Wright twitched a twisted eyebrow. "Ja," he repeated. "Sure. And I'm glad and all, but I'm afraid it's getting pretty late and the tea party here has to end."

"Niiiick," Larry whined, and Klavier nearly suffered whiplash from how quickly his expression melted into some sick puppydog pout. "We were just gettin' to know each other! Come on, maaaaan."

"Go 'get to know each other' somewhere else, Larry, I have a daughter to take care of."

"Heheh, yeah you do—"

"Larry get out of this agency right now, I swear to God."

Klavier figured it was for the best to follow Larry as he stalked out of the office, head hung low, but at least he offered Wright a wave instead of a comment on his daughter. He would hate to have to prosecute Wright for murder.

It had grown cold outside the office, a bitter crispness biting at the edges of Klavier's skin and whisking at his hair. Larry tugged his jacket tighter around him, eyes still on Klavier in ways that made him feel almost nostalgic; the guy was watching the way he moved, how he carried himself, the blend of his smile with the rest of his face. Klavier never thought he'd be thanking some invisible nonentity for someone who reminded him of paparazzi.

"He's kinda allergic to fun," Larry said, hands dug deep in the pockets of his too-short pants. He looked like a poor art student who couldn't be bothered to get a real job. It was a look Klavier liked, in a way. "Always kicks me out just as stuff is gettin good! Just cause I almost got his daughter a gig at this bar I like once…"

Klavier watched as his hands came out of his pockets again with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Long fingers, nimble. They reminded him very suddenly of a guitarist's. He shook his head clear of that thought. Larry was talking again.

"I bet you could prolly convince him to do whatever! I mean, jeeze, you're famous! And frikkin cool, man. Ice cool or somethin."

"Ha, not remotely," Klavier replied. "Herr Wright treats me something like the 'bad son.'" Keep talking, Larry, he thought. The ego rush was doing more for him than nicotine ever could.

"He's crazy! Jeeeez," Larry said, fishing a cigarette from the box and fiddling with it between his fingers. "He could prolly just sell a Christmas card with your signature on it and make more money than he ever did as a lawyer." The lighter clicked idly in his other hand.

"Ah, not anymore, I'm afraid." Klavier's smile bit a little bitter now. "I'm not quite as popular as once I was, not without the Gavinners."

"That's stupid," Larry said, and it was so childish that it spun around to charming again. He had a frown around the cigarette in his mouth, lighting it after a quick disagreement with the lighter. "S'not the music, dude, it's the way you're all EMPOWERMENT and LAW and changin the world! Right?"

Changing the world. Right. Klavier took a moment to watch the smoke spin up from the sideways grin.

Changing the world.

Klavier reach up and plucked the cigarette from Larry's mouth, the cherry's reflection glowing in across nails. "You shouldn't do that, Herr Butz. Terrible for your voice, ja?" And dangling the cigarette away from them, he pressed his mouth against Larry's like he would suck the smoke from his throat.

It was just when Larry had stopped blinking and started considering kissing back, lips parting when Klavier swept a tongue across them to feel the cracks and ridges in his skin, that Klavier pulled back, not-yet-patented grin on his face. He put the smoldering cigarette between his own lips and pulled in a breath. Larry was stuttering somewhere in between bewilderment and disappointment and Klavier dropped the cigarette and crushed it under the heel of his boot.

"Perhaps I can help you quit that habit," Klavier said. The look on Larry's face stuck even when he fixed the helmet on his head and let the motorcycle roar.

Changing someone's world, anyway.


End file.
